Harry Potter and the Greater Good
by Potterino
Summary: WARNING: Contains Child Abuse (Age 16) and mentions of it at younger ages. Will eventually be Snarry but not explicit. OP Harry. Canon up to and including Order of the Phoenix, but AU after. Starts off Dark. Harry is depressed after Sirius' death and has been hurt deeply by his Uncle. His secrets discovered one by one, he is returned to Hogwarts for summer and his 6th year.
1. Prologue

**Harry Potter and the Greater Good**

**Disclaimer**: I own absolutely nothing of the Potter universe, not its characters nor its world. All rights reserved by JK Rowling.

**Warning**: Contains Child Abuse (Age 16) and mentions of it at younger ages. Will eventually be slash/Snarry but not explicit or detailed. OP Harry. Canon up to and including Order of Phoenix, AU after.

**Prologue**

_July 30__th__ 11.20pm. _

The slight figure stood at the window, his face turned up and out towards the night sky. His head was cocked to the side, listening to the pounding of the rain and the scream of the wind as it shook the glass. A flash of lightning illuminated the pale thin face and the horrible blisters that spread across both closed eyes. The blisters were red, angry and oozing, the flesh from temple to temple swollen and puckered. Another flash revealed even more blisters around the mouth and as a terrible thunder sounded and as the house shook under it, those blistered lips grimaced up into a brief and grim smile.

The weather had been strange all summer; instead of the heatwave of the previous year, there had been weeks of torrential rain and almost nightly thunderstorms. Hundreds of homes and businesses had been affected by flooding, billions of pounds of damage done, but the boy found it comforting. It seemed right to him that the weather outside should reflect the feelings within.

A soft hoot, barely audible over the crash of the storm, and the boy withdrew from the window and turned towards the sound. In his surprise, he had momentarily forgotten himself and had tried to open his eyes; his lips drew back in a grimace of pain but no sound escaped him. His eyes were swollen shut and the skin too tight, he hadn't succeeded in opening them but the pain was appalling, a wave of nausea washed over him and he staggered over to the bed, falling onto it just as his knees gave way.

For a time, he remained still, not daring to move, to breathe. The immediate danger passed, his stomach settled, and he slowly let out a gasp of relief. A rustle and then Hedwig was perched on his knee, hooting softly, leaning to brush against his cheek gently. She had long since come to understand the consequence to her master should she make too much noise. He reached for her carefully and, finding a thick pile of letters and a few lumpy parcels, relieved her of the burden and tossed them onto the bed beside him.

'_Hi girl_,' he thought at her, '_I didn't know you were back_.' He knew she couldn't hear him, of course, but it made him feel a little bit better. He felt around on the mattress until his fingers brushed against one of the packages. '_I guess that means it's my birthday, huh?_'

His friends always sent his birthday wishes and presents around midnight on his birthday, and if that was the case this year, that meant it had been four days since the _accident_ that had taken his sight, and eight days since the one that had taken his voice. In a way, his blindness was a blessing; he had found it unbelievably hard to read the good cheer in his friends' correspondence, and even harder to fake the same in his replies.

'_So, I'm 16_.' He thought to himself, dispassionately.

He found he didn't care.

The Boy-Who-Lived. The Chosen One. The Saviour. Golden Boy. Triwizard Champion. Harry-Bloody-Potter. So many names, so many titles, and a small part of him – a _very_ small part – wished that they could see him now. He could guess what was in those letters; Ron all excited as he described his new hobby of snogging Hermione in minute detail, Hermione's would always be the same 'have you done your homework', and fretting again about the imminent arrival of the O.W.L results. Mrs. Weasley would have sent her usual care package of food, and promises that he could soon visit. None of them would mention the day he had killed his Godfather. They wouldn't mention Voldemort…

He shoved the letters away in disgust and felt around in the drawer to his bedside table, frantic now and getting worse by the second until he found what he was looking for. That small broken piece of glass, the very thing that could have saved the life of Padfoot. He closed his fist around it tightly, ignoring the small flash of pain as it once again pierced his skin.

He deserved it.

He deserved everything he got and more besides.


	2. Chapter One

**Harry Potter and the Greater Good**

**Disclaimer**: I own absolutely nothing of the Potter universe, not its characters nor its world. All rights reserved by JK Rowling.

**Warning**: Contains Child Abuse (Age 16) and mentions of it at younger ages. Will eventually be slash/Snarry but not explicit or detailed. OP Harry. Canon up to and including Order of Phoenix, AU after.

**Chapter One**

_July 31__st__ 12am_

Hedwig nudged Harry's hand reprovingly, nipping gently until he loosened his grasp on that cursed piece of glass. He could feel the blood pooling in the palm of his hand and dripping through his fingers, and for a moment he felt alive, but he knew that his owl would become more and more distraught if he continued. Letting out a weary sigh, he tucked the glass into the pocket of the overly large jumper and reached out to calm his familiar with his good hand.

After a few moments, he got shakily to his feet and carefully began to pace the room, trying to cling on to that calm quiet place in his mind. He was so tired, so goddamn tired of everything, and he just wanted it all to be over. He could do nothing about the constant monologue that were his thoughts ('_I killed Sirius. I have to kill Voldemort. I'm scared. I want to die. I deserve this. God but it _needs_ to end. Sirius…_') and the only time he came anywhere close to peace was when he was hurt, when he fled to that white room in his mind and shut everything else out. He had always been able to count on the Dursleys for that, but it was getting harder and harder to find his way there. His right hand had closed on that piece of glass every night now, reopening the wounds again and again, and goddamn it but he was so tired!

He stilled as he sensed… something. It was like a slight breeze wrapping itself around him, making the hair on his arms stand up on end. He started to frown, and then winced and quickly smoothed his expression. If he had been able to see, he would have noticed that the streetlamps of Privet Drive were quietly flickering out one by one. Instead, he found himself holding his breath and waiting… waiting…

A knock on the door.

"WHO THE BLOODY HELL IS HERE AT THIS TIME OF NIGHT?"

Harry flinched at his uncle's roar and without even realising it, he retreated into the corner of the room, making himself as small as possible. A raised voice from the Dursleys meant only one thing for Harry, and that one thing was pain. It took a few minutes of deep breathing for his heart to calm and the trembles to stop, but he quickly realised that nobody _normal _would be knocking at this time of night. It had to be about him.

He wondered if Voldemort had finally found him. If his Death Eaters were even now forcing their way into the small house intent only on the destruction of Harry Potter, and was a bit uncomfortable when he felt a jolt of relief at the thought. Then he came to his senses; Death Eaters would not knock on the damn door.

It had to be someone from the Order.

He realised that there had been no other sound from downstairs for quite a few minutes and then a familiar voice broke the silence.

"Ah, Mr. Dursley," Albus Dumbledore spoke cheerfully, "and Petunia. It's lovely to see you again."

No response.

"Shall I assume you have temporarily lost your voice and have invited me inside your lovely home?" the headmaster spoke politely and seemed amused, but Harry had again frozen at the words 'lost your voice'. Dumbledore was here for him, was here to take him to the Order, or to the Weasleys. Dumbledore would not be intimidated. He would see. He would _know_.

Harry's heart leapt into his throat. For the first time in weeks, he actually felt something, and that something was complete and utter terror.

"He's not going back!" Vernon's bluster was ruined by the horrified squeak of his voice, "he- he-"

"He says he's done with the lot of you!" There was his Aunt, but she didn't sound any more confident than her husband. For once his _family _were right. He did not want to go with the headmaster, and there was no way in hell that he could be seen like this. He'd felt the familiar tingle over his skin the instant he recognised Dumbledore's voice, and knew that his usual glamour was in place. Unfortunately, it wouldn't be enough this time. He would be unable to move without revealing his lack of sight, and even if he just stood there, he was unable to speak.

He would _know_. They would all know.

"Oh, I'm sure it's just a misunderstanding." Dumbledore again, but he sounded colder now and closer. "If you are unwilling to ask your nephew to speak with me, then I must insist that I go to him myself."

Harry finally broke free from his stupor and threw himself onto the floor, scrabbling around desperately for that one loose floorboard under his bed. As usual, he had stashed a few items there at the beginning of the holidays and so he quickly snatched up a piece of parchment and a quill. His hands were shaking as he removed the stopper from the vial of ink and he mouthed a curse as it splashed over his hand. He had seconds now; he heard the squeak of the third stair and knew the old man was coming. He wrote quickly, blindly, hoping that the parchment wasn't one of his earlier letters and that his trembling hadn't made his writing illegible, and then he shoved the note under the door just as the shadow of long robes stopped by the cat flap.

He held his breath and stilled, listening with everything he had. He heard a soft rustle, a little 'Hm' of surprise and knew that his letter had been picked up. He cringed.

_Headmaster._

_I will be remaining here with my family. I have no wish to speak to yourself or anyone else again._

_Harry Potter_

He wanted to groan. He knew it was bloody useless. And yet as the silence stretched, a small bubble of hope rose within him. Maybe he would listen. Maybe he would believe it. Maybe he would just go away.

"Alohomora."

So much for that.

Harry scrambled back to his feet as he heard the seven locks clicking open one by one. He stood, rooted to the spot, as the door was opened with its usual loud _creak_ and he felt the presence of Albus Dumbledore, headmaster of Hogwarts, mere inches away. He stood still as a statue. He couldn't see the man's expression; it was probably just that grandfatherly disappointment that had hurt Harry so much in the past, and he couldn't see the lit wand that was swept quickly around the room then directed at him.

"Harry?"

He could feel the headmaster step closer, was unable to stop the violent flinch when the man settled his hand on his shoulder. Dumbledore seemed alarmed and instantly dropped his hand.

"Harry, did you write this?" the old man was almost whispering and he sounded even closer; Harry guessed he was leaning down, trying to look him in the eye. "Why is there blood all over this, Harry?"


	3. Chapter Two

**Harry Potter and the Greater Good**

**Disclaimer**: I own absolutely nothing of the Potter universe, not its characters nor its world. All rights reserved by JK Rowling.

**Warning**: Contains Child Abuse (Age 16) and mentions of it at younger ages. Will eventually be slash/Snarry but not explicit or detailed. OP Harry. Canon up to and including Order of Phoenix, AU after.

**This particular chapter goes into more detail of said abuse.**

**Chapter Two**

Harry didn't wake up so much as 'came to'. He knew immediately that he wasn't alone and remembered Dumbledore's visit. He lay completely still as he attempted to get his bearings in that blackness he had come to appreciate, not wanting to alert others to his consciousness. The bed under him was soft and level, so he was no longer in his own room in Privet Drive, where the metal frame had been meant for a six-year-old child and was one sneeze away from disintegrating. The air felt _cleaner _too; he had spent several weeks locked up in that one room, leaving only for the few chores that he could still manage and that were still demanded of him. As such, his bedroom had become heavy with the smells of unwashed teenager, blood, pain and despair.

He'd spent enough time over the last five years in the hospital wing to recognise the stiff starch of the sheets he could feel under his fingers. How had he gotten here?

The headmaster had refused to leave without him, but when he had taken Harry's arm to lead him from that stark prison of a bedroom, Harry had simply _reacted_. He could see it now, as if he had been a fly on the wall and not one of the two struggling occupants. He had panicked. He had attacked Albus Dumbledore with tooth and claw – well, nails and kicks. He considered the memory dispassionately, rather surprised that he had been able to get himself that worked up. He honestly hadn't thought he had anything like that left in him.

The terror and blind fury had been _real_, and Harry found himself relishing the taste of it. He knew he should be embarrassed, horrified by his actions, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He had attacked the headmaster of Hogwarts, had kicked at him, clawed at his face, knocked those half-moon spectacles flying. He had pulled his lips back to snarl like a wild animal, hissing and spitting but unable to release the screams that had clawed their way up his throat, and it had felt _good._

The old man must have stunned him and brought him back to Hogwarts.

He tried to dredge up some anger at that, but if the previous year had taught him anything, it was that anger was too damn exhausting.

"Mr. Potter." Madame Pomfrey. He stiffened. He had known that he was not alone, but how had she gotten so damn close without him _feeling_ it? Who else was there? For that matter, how long exactly had he been stunned for? Was his glamour still in place? "I'm going to examine you now, Mr. Potter." Pomfrey spoke again in that firm no-nonsense tone he knew so well.

He tried not to flinch as slightly cold hands touched his face, but judging by the momentary pause, Madame Pomfrey had noticed it. He felt the back of her hand against his forehead and then gently ghosted over the blisters that were his eyes. She said nothing and it was clear that she was keeping her touch as light as possible, but it didn't stop the searing pain as she probed at the largest of the blisters that had formed over the lid of his right eye, effectively sealing it closed.

Next, her fingers traced the scalds around his mouth, her free hand indicating that he should tilt his head back and open his mouth. He did so.

The examination seemed to go on for a long time, and not just around his injuries. She seemed to be probing every minute detail of his body, right down to the tips of his toes. A parchment had materialised at the end of his bed when she began and it consistently grew longer and longer as the check up continued. He was bone weary by the time she stepped away – something else he had learned only this summer, lying down could be hard work.

"Very good, Potter." She murmured and he felt the breeze as she turned, her robe swishing behind her.

He waited.

He felt another tingle after a moment, not unlike what had occurred at the Dursleys minutes before Dumbledore had arrived. Though his eyes were firmly shut, he saw a thin thread of gold weave around him and knew, somehow, that Madame Pomfrey had stepped away and cast a privacy charm, to stop him from hearing what she was telling others. He tried to become annoyed at that, but he really didn't care.

Instead, he pulled at that thread idly, trying to see if he could manipulate it, if he could 'grasp' it between the ghostly fingers of his mind's eye. It was surprisingly easy to pull at the end of that strand and undo the spell. He was rewarded – no, rather he was annoyed to hear the voices on the other side of the closed curtains.

"How was this never discovered?" The faint voice belonged to Professor McGonagall, his head of house. "He's been here for five years, Poppy, and spent a considerable amount of time in this very infirmary."

"I've never had cause to run a full in-depth medical review on him before Minerva." Pomfrey sounded almost as tired as he felt. "I don't understand it myself; the majority of these injuries are years old, but previous broken bones and serious illness should show on the scan all students are required to take at the start of the school year. Once past injuries are revealed in that initial scan, I decide if a full review is needed."

"How could we possibly have missed this, then?"

"It's obvious, isn't it?" And there was Professor Snape. Fantastic. Still, the man sounded oddly distracted. "Look at this, you can see clearly when he received treatment and when not; those before Potter reached six show next to no attention, but once his accidental magic came into force, there has been a trend of consistently better care."

"You mean his magic has been healing him." Pomfrey again. "I don't understand how that could fool the Medi-Scan, Severus."

"Nor the blood wards," Dumbledore sounded strange and quiet, "the blood wards were to protect him from any harm. They should have triggered an alert the minute he had anything more serious than a grazed knee."

"It could only be his magic," Snape said impatiently, "there is no other logical explanation. Look, you can see as he got older, as his power and his understanding of it matured, he was able to heal himself exceptionally well. Until this summer, of course."

"But not completely…"

"His _family _did this to him, Minerva." Snape snarled, and now he sounded his usual furious self – almost as angry as he had been after that particular Occlumency lesson. "He has healed himself up to a certain point every time; just enough to ensure the bruises and injuries remain visible to the _muggle's _eye. Even still, the rest of it always seems to have healed completely within the next few days."

"He didn't know about our world until he turned eleven!" McGonagall again. "Are you saying that a complete novice managed to not only fool ancient blood magic, but also Poppy's Scan, all without knowing it?"

"You can feel his power." This was someone new, a small squeaky voice usually cheerful but now sombre. Professor Flitwick. "If the poor boy did not want anyone to know, then they would not know."

"Why wouldn't he want anyone to know?" Dumbledore, and now there was a faint pleading tone underlying his words.

"What I want to know is why it stopped this summer." Snape said. "Obviously his magic stilled the alerts on the blood wards again, but why has it left him so-"

"Harry has taken the death of his godfather particularly hard," Dumbledore replied, "I had thought he might be a bit depressed, had indeed hoped to cheer him up by releasing him to the Burrow. If it is as you say, Severus, and his magic thwarted our tests, then the only reason he has not healed is because he would not allow it."

"Of course, he wouldn't." Snape was disgusted now. "He deserves it!"

"Severus!"

"Oh, don't look so shocked!" Snape fumed. "There's a reason my house receives those with troubled homes. _Of course_ he doesn't deserve it, Minerva, no one could ever deserve something like this! He, however, will disagree."

_Sirius laughing and joking. Padfoot fooling around at the train station, getting spotted by the Malfoy's. The gloom and despair Sirius had suffered in his hated family home. The glass. _

_"Use this if you need to contact me." _

_Sirius, falling through that veil. Again. The Glass. _

_"Use this." _

_The empty corridor where his godfather should have been. Malfoy's gloating. Snape _

_"You're not even trying to close your mind, Potter!" _

_Sirius and the veil. _

It took a moment to realise that there was a startled silence from the professors. He heard the sound of the curtain being torn aside and then felt small, crowded, as they came closer.

"Mr. Potter-" McGonagall sounded rather sick. "Did you just…"

"Oh, Harry, my dear boy!" Dumbledore, he assumed, ignored his flinch and placed his hand on Harry's shoulder. "It was all my fault-"

_"If you ever need me, use this. I mean it, Harry, anything at all."_

_ The Glass._

_ "If you ever need me-"_

_ The glass, broken._

_ "-Ever need me-"_

_ The glass covered in blood._

_ "-Need me-"_

"That's enough, Potter!" Snape's sharp voice pierced through his determined despair. "If you want to wallow in self-pity, leave us out of it! You have no right to communicate like this!"

Harry felt a flare of anger.

_He was bent over the frying pan, trying to make sure the bacon didn't burn. The kettle was whistling. His cousin was watching a rather loud cartoon and laughing uproariously. Harry was hurting from yesterday's punishment – he hadn't finished this list of chores. He hadn't even tried to start them. Petunia was twirling around in a horridly floral dress. Vernon was alternating his scowls between the newspaper and the window. _

_ "Blasted rain!" he shouted. Vernon had wanted to take Petunia out for a nice dinner to celebrate the signing of a new contract. "It's not right that it should rain so much! Even whatshisname, the weatherman on the news, says so!"_

_ His attention turned to the Boy. It must have something to do with _that _lot._

_ "Boy! Where is my breakfast?"_

_ "Coming, Uncle." The boys voice was a monotone. Vernon gritted his teeth; he was quickly becoming tired of that mocking freak!_

_ The bacon was served. His Uncle said it was burnt._

_ It wasn't. _

_ A whirling of movement. The sounds of flesh hitting flesh. A thud. Harry on the floor, just laying there. Waiting. Vernon, red faced and puffing, looming above him. _

_ "I'll teach you to cheek me, boy!" He roared. He grabbed the boiling hot kettle. Grinned. Poured._

_ At first, Harry screamed. He couldn't help it. It was the worst pain he had ever felt, the scalding water bubbled over his lips and down his throat. He felt every single bit of it. Then, his throat seized. He could only croak. _

_ "Let's see you do magic now!"_

_ The kettle, once filled to the brim, was finally emptied._

The hand on his shoulder shook and fell away. He heard several of his professors stagger back from the vision he had – somehow – forced upon them. Someone was vomiting. Harry tried not to care, but even he was shaken; he had not wanted to show anybody that.

He could feel his magic flaring around him, almost like it was alive and insistent on being heard.


	4. Chapter Three

**Chapter Three**

Harry slept.

He wasn't quite sure how Madame Pomfrey had managed to get him to sleep, and with relatively few nightmares, without forcing a _Dreamless Sleep _potion down his throat, but she had. How long he slept for, he didn't know. He woke several times to the feeling that there was always someone there beside him, and a few times heard frustrated whispering, but mostly it was Pomfrey asking questions he didn't bother to answer.

The first time he came to any true form of consciousness, he found himself in a strange place that could only be described as _black_. It wasn't really a darkness, as such, he could see himself clearly enough when he looked down – that was surprising on his own – and yet he couldn't see where the light to see himself came from. He could _see_, and yet he could feel the damage had not been repaired. So, he must be dreaming then.

There was something ahead of him, something small. After only a brief hesitation, Harry began to walk towards it. He realised that it was likely another of Voldemort's traps, and couldn't bring himself to care. His steps seemed to echo and he found it oddly satisfying to shatter that total silence. As he drew nearer, the something got larger until eventually he found himself standing by Severus Snape who was seated opposite from an empty chair.

Frowning, Harry sat down.

He and the Professor merely looked at each other for quite some time, and when Snape raised an eyebrow, he found himself mirroring the expression. This has to be one of the oddest of his nightmares to date, and _that _was saying something.

"It's not a dream, Mr. Potter." Snape's tone was neutral. "Well, not entirely."

"Not entirely," Harry repeated, "either I'm awake or I'm asleep." He was a bit surprised to hear himself speak and sound so _normal._

"We are in a medical mindscape," Snape explained, "it is a spell designed to create a neutral expanse where two minds can meet away from the physical plane. It is used in St. Mungo's hospital to better treat those with depression."

"I suppose this is Dumbledore's great idea," Harry snorted. "As if the Occlumency wasn't bad enough for the both of us." ('_And if I'd bothered to try learning that properly, Sirius would still be here')_

Harry flinched and looked around him as his thought echoed aloud.

"The mindscape is a place without deception." Snape sounded almost gentle now. "Anything it believes pertains to your health; it will share." ('_From either of us.')_

Harry couldn't help it, he laughed out loud. He expected his Potions Master to sneer, but judging by the smirk and amused glint in his eye, he could see the irony too.

"In response to your statement, however, it was not Albus. He wanted to send for the best of the mind healers. I… requested the chance to help you first."

"Why?" ('_You hate me. You've always hated me.') _He sighed. "That is going to get annoying fast."

"I don't hate you." Snape answered, quietly. "I hated my _idea _of you, if anything. I could not help but look at you and see my tormenter of so many years." (_'And I could not meet your gaze without remembering the friendship your mother and I shared, before I managed to destroy it.) _Snape grimaced. "I asked for this chance for a number of reasons; largely as a way to apologise for my treatment of you these last five years and for my assumptions."

"Don't worry about it." ('_I worked hard to give people those assumptions._')

"I also want to help because I have some… experience, both in your personal situation and in helping others overcome their own." Snape continued carefully, ignoring Harry's interruption for now. "There is a reason that most children with your _background _are sorted into Slytherin."

"You have some experience," Harry repeated dully, "so you've killed your Godfather too, very nearly killed your friends, because you were too stupid?"

There was a short pause, then Snape sighed.

"There are so many things wrong with that statement, Potter." Harry made no reply, and seemed to be rapidly losing interest in the whole situation now. Snape said the only thing that could bring him back. "I killed my father."

"What?" Harry was startled and it showed in the sudden jerk as he brought his gaze back to his professor's. "No, you didn't."

Snake smirked with obvious satisfaction. "Ah, there is life in you yet, Potter."

"Why would you say something like that?" Harry demanded.

"Because it's the truth."

"Was it an accident?" ('_Why do I even care?_') he asked himself, trying to get some distance from the conversation. ('_Because the only thing you've ever wanted is a family. That someone could turn around and kill their own, it's… it's wrong!_') Harry flushed and cringed back into his seat as the last of that thought echoed through the scape. He risked a glance at the professor through his fringe and was stunned to see the man regarding him thoughtfully. "I- I'm sorry."

"No one can control their thoughts, Potter, especially not in a place like this." Then he paused and seemed to be struggling with himself. ('_Am I really going to go through all of this again?_') He quirked an eyebrow as his own thought was revealed and sent a meaningful look at the boy. "See what I mean?"

"You don't have to." Harry said, quickly.

"I'll make you a deal, Potter." Snape replied. "Answer my questions and I'll answer yours."

"Why would you?"

"We cannot deceive each other here, and my questions are going to be very hard on you."

"Why did you kill your father?"

"I assume that means you accept," Snape said dryly, "and technically it's my turn as you already asked your first question when you asked why." He'd hoped for a flare of that righteous Gryffindor anger there, but Potter merely shrugged. "Very well. My father was… not a nice man." ('_He was a bloody nightmare, actually.') _"He did not like the fact that he had married a witch, despite knowing beforehand."

"You're-" Though Harry stopped himself, the mindscape didn't allow it. ('-_a half blood_?')

"Yes. He married my mother for her family inheritance, and the minute they were wed, he showed himself to be cruel. He abused my mother for years, and as soon as I was old enough to get between them, he began to beat me. When I was fifteen, he killed my mother."

"I'm sorry."

Snape shrugged. "It was a long time ago." ('_Never stops hurting, though.')_

"I know."

"Why did you never tell anyone about the muggles?"

"I deserved it."

"Really, Potter. If that's the best you can do, I will temper my answers to match."

"I didn't know any different, at first. I didn't have a name until primary school, I was just 'Boy'. Dudley was an angel, and I the spawn of evil itself. He was so good and thoughtful and kind and I was a horrible spiteful little monster, stealing the food right out of his mouth. I was given a list of chores to do every day and if I completed them then I was fed and sent to my cupboard. If not, I went without food and was beaten by my uncle for being so lazy. I tried to be good. I tried to be an angel." Harry spoke dispassionately, idly picking at a loose thread on his trousers and Severus had difficulty hiding his shudder at the dead tone of voice.

"And after?"

"Well, then it was Hogwarts. Here I was in an entirely new world, so excited and eager to explore and learn and just simply be free of that constant disdain." He smiled deprecatingly. "Imagine my surprise when I learn I'm famous! Every child has grown up knowing my name and every one of them had known it for far longer than I had. Oh, the irony." His laugh was cold. "I hadn't even reached the damn school before the expectations of others hit me; Ollivander was the first – _great things_! – everyone thought I was so special and clever, I was the Boy-Who-Lived, I couldn't be some scrawny little runt who couldn't even stand up to his muggle relatives."

"We could have helped you. You could have been taken away from them."

Harry just shook his head. "When and how did you kill your father?"

"That's two questions, Potter."

"So was yours." Harry retorted, but then he flushed slightly and looked down, as if just realising what he was asking. "I'm sorry, you don't have to."

"I was seventeen." He said, slowly. "He was a … gift to me, from the Dark Lord when I foolishly followed my friends into his service. It was the first and last time I used the killing curse, and I havent regretted it once." Snape leaned forward, his black eyes intent on Harry's. "Why won't you allow us to heal you?"

"How am I stopping you?" Harry seemed mildly surprised.

"Your power has become wild and shields you from our attempts. The longer we leave it, the more risk you will have of becoming permanently blind and mute."

"I see." ('_Good, I deserve it.') _The thought was fierce and so was the look he sent at his Professor when he saw him about to argue. "Don't bother, or we can just stop this … this… whatever the hell this is right now."

Snape sat back and eyed him coolly. "I see, and here I was led to understand that you had been told the entirety of the prophecy at the end of the last year."

"So, what of it?"

"Ah," Snape's voice was a cold whisper now, his expression shuttered, "I understand. I wasn't wrong, after all. You _really_ are that selfish."

"Yeah. Right. Whatever." For a moment, a look of disappointment flashed through those deep green eyes, and then Harry started to withdraw.

"So, you're just going to die." Snape pressed. "You're just going to lie back and die, and it doesn't matter that the entire Wizarding World will suffer, right? As long as you are at peace, it doesn't matter that muggleborns like Granger will be slaughtered. As long as you can rest, it doesn't matter that the entire Weasley family will be eradicated as blood traitors."

Harry said nothing.

"I had no liking for Sirius Black," Snape hissed, "but I'm glad he is dead. Hearing this would have broken him in ways 12 years in Azkaban did not."

"Don't you dare bring Sirius into this!" Harry was on his feet and furious, his hands curled tightly into fists at his side. "Don't you dare pretend to know him!"

"I knew him better than you."

"Exactly!" Harry snarled. "I didn't even have chance… and you were such a bastard! Always goading him, making him feel useless, pushing just the right buttons! You're as much to blame for his death as I am!"

"True." Suddenly, Snape was calm again, a strange sad smile playing across his lips. "I am. I did know exactly where to push and I _pushed_. I did not like Black," he repeated, "but I am sorry for how it ended. I am sorry for my part in it."

Harry was panting, glaring, hating, _feeling_. Slowly, deliberately, he calmed himself down and faced his bastard of a professor with dull eyes.

"Just do it. I won't stop you."

Severus Snape woke quite some time later, stretched out on a hospital bed that had been placed next to Potter's. As he stood, his long black robes billowing around him, he noticed that Albus and Minerva were still seated by the boy's side and both looking at him with apprehension. A glance out the window revealed it to be the dead of night and he was surprised to discover that he had been talking to Harry Potter for several hours.

Wanting nothing more than to return to his own rooms and time to digest what he had learned, Severus instead sighed and took a seat at Harry's bed, opposite from Minerva.

"Well." He rubbed the bridge of his nose, a headache rapidly making itself known. "We can heal him, now."

It was a testament to how tired he was that he hadn't heard Poppy come up behind him, but at his words she bustled to the boy's side immediately and tried a minor charm to heal a bruise. There seemed to be a moment of resistance, and then the bruise faded before their eyes. All three professors let out their collective breaths. None of them spoke as they watched her work.

Contrary to popular belief, healing was one of the most difficult arts to master. While most witches and wizards learned the bare minimum of healing during their seventh year - charms to heal bruises and shallow cuts – mastery required complete understanding of the human body. Not just the physique but also a familiarity with the physiology; how the body worked and particularly how it healed itself. Most medics found it useful, therefore, to study medicine in the muggle world and as their science and understanding improved, so did the healing of the magical world. Many found the idea of surgery to be barbaric, but few could deny it was an ingenious way to get around the muggle's lack of magic.

Magic circumvented the need for things like X-Rays, but it wasn't the eyes that sought out the injuries, it was touch and feeling. Now that Harry's magic was allowing Poppy Pomfrey past the barrier, she stood over him with her fingertips lightly on his chest. He was covered in bruises, he had broken ribs, a sprained wrist, dozens of lacerations on his back, the blistering around his mouth and eyes, and of course his throat. There was too much for her to do by herself, but several potions made her task somewhat easier.

First, she mended the ribs, ensuring that when Harry was released from the stasis, he wouldn't end up puncturing a lung. Then, she tackled the blistering – here, infection was already setting in, and she could feel the raging heat centred around the boy's head. Potions would combat the fever but her magic was needed to battle the infection and chase it out of his body. This particular part was gruelling and it took some time before the infection had bated and the skin had healed. Unfortunately, the scarring was deep and she was not sure she would be able to remove them. That would have to wait until the healing was complete.

She was exhausted by the time she turned her magic to the wounds on his back, no doubt made by some sort of belt buckle. Finally, she forced herself to step back from the poor boy; she had done all she could for now, she needed rest and to replenish her magic before she tackled the bruises and the sprain, or she would end up in a bed next to him.

She had succeeded in healing his throat – he would be unable to speak for a few days while the new skin toughened, but he _would_ speak again. She had had to cut away at the blisters and remove most of the inner scarring, replacing it with fresh shiny pink flesh. She had also done her very best for his eyes, but she wouldn't know if she had succeeded until the boy woke.

"I've done all I can for now," she told the waiting professors, "I need to rest. Excuse me."

Minerva helped the exhausted witch into her office and to take the needed magic replenishment potions, then she helped her into her bed. When she was sure that the medi-witch would rest, Minerva returned to Harry's bedside, looking down at the boy sadly.

"Would he talk to you?" She finally asked, turning her attention to the Potions Master.

"Oh, we talked alright." Snape snorted. "That boy should have been a Slytherin. I offered him a deal; he answers my questions and I'd answer his. The brat took full advantage of that."

Albus, who had been morose for days, actually laughed at that. He knew Severus would never have offered such an open-ended deal to any of his snakes. No doubt he had believed the boy too honourable to pry. "I did tell you, did I not, that the sorting hat very seriously considered placing Harry in Slytherin?"

"Yes, well, I didn't believe you."

"How is he?"

"Not good," Severus sighed again, "but we did make some progress, as you can see. He spoke in depth about the abuse, but dispassionately, and only so that my own answers had to be equally detailed. In truth, this is what makes me think he is not lost to us yet. He might be unable or unwilling to dredge up any feeling towards himself besides guilt and hatred – yes, Minerva, hatred – his curiosity about my own past shows that he still feels something towards others. We can use that. I _did _use that."

"How?" Minerva narrowed her eyes, positive that she would not like the answer.

"We use the safety of others against him." Severus explained. "Now that he knows the prophecy, he knows that he needs to live, at least until the Dark Lord is gone. If that dratted thing is to believed, then he and he alone can strike that fatal blow. If he dies before then, so does the world we know… including Granger, the Weasleys…"

"Oh Severus," Minerva sounded appalled, "you suggest we play on his sense of duty to keep him alive? He'll think that's all we want him for!"

"He already thinks that. He's thought that since his first trip to Hogwarts, with everyone telling him all about himself." Severus stood and glanced down at the unconscious boy again. "From some of what he told me, I'm astounded he wasn't broken before he even came to Hogwarts, and it only got worse from there. A lesser person would have shattered."

"Surely what he needs now is understanding, not … well… extortion!"

"Potter and I have always had a somewhat turbulent relationship," Snape replied quietly, "I will say and do what needs to be said and done to keep him alive. Anything else he needs can come after. If you'll excuse me, I need to rest."


	5. Chapter Four

**Disclaimer**: Nothing of the Harry Potter world is my own, unfortunately.

* * *

**Chapter Four**

* * *

Harry awoke to a darkness more complete than the one he had just left, and to the unexpected weight of a padded dressing over his eyes. For a time, he remained motionless, letting his mind wander over the multitude of conversations he had had with Snape. The medical mindscape had left him feeling raw and exposed and he cringed to think of some of the secrets he had been forced to lay bare. He wanted that detachment back, that complete absence of feeling, but it had been stripped from him as cleanly as his glamour.

And Snape!

All too soon, Harry would have to summon up the energy to replace the mask of the perfect Golden Gryffindor again, all spit and fire and _life_. He could do it; he'd been doing it for years and he was sure that it wouldn't take much to get Dumbledore and McGonagall to see that happy smiling boy again. If he was careful, if he let the Boy-Who-Lived return slowly over the next week, he was sure that he could fool them. But Snape… how was he supposed to look the man in the eye? How was he supposed to dredge up that passion, that hatred? He was too damn exhausted.

No matter how good his performance, he hadn't a hope in hell of fooling Snape. If it hadn't been for the fact that Snape expected a mini James Potter, he had no doubt that he wouldn't have been able to keep his secrets this long. While remarkably blind in some quarters, the man was too bloody observant and too clever by half. Would Snape break the illusion that Harry wanted to give to the Headmaster and his Head of House?

Perhaps not, if Harry could trade him for his silence.

He did _not_ want pity. He did _not_ want endless lectures on how he needed to talk about his bloody _feelings_. Snape had made his point; Harry had a duty and that duty was to kill Voldemort. That meant more than just coasting along waiting for his inevitable death, it meant going to his lessons, it meant actually learning as much as he could and it meant actively and honestly trying to find a way to do his goddamned duty. He could not – would not – face the wizarding world as 'boy', they needed Harry Potter. Boy would be fine shoved down inside for a little while yet.

"Are you going to lie there and feign sleep for the foreseeable future, Mr. Potter?" And there was Snape. Harry sighed.

"I'm thinking about it." As surprised as he was to hear himself speak at all, it was nothing to the utter shock of hearing Snape laugh. He must have imagined it. Harry cleared his throat; his voice was gruff – almost raspy. "I guess the healing went well, then." Talking hurt. It hurt his ears as well, all gravelly and just plain wrong.

"For the most part."

Harry grunted. "No offence, Professor, but I've just about had my fill of you for now."

"_Potter!_" McGonagall's aghast snap was unexpected and quite close by. Harry flinched then forced himself to still and swore under his breath. An awkward silence followed, and then he heard a sigh and a light hand touched his shoulder briefly. "My - my apologies, Mr. Potter. I did not intend to startle you."

Harry, trying not to flinch again at the unanticipated touch, shrugged. "I was rude, I apologise."

"How are you feeling, Harry?" So, Dumbledore was here too. "Do you think you might be up for a little chat?"

"I've done nothing but bloody 'chat' in that mindscape of yours." Harry snapped, then rubbed his head and sighed; he wasn't going to fool anyone like this. "Forgive me Professor, I know I've only just woken up, but I'm just so tired. What did you want to talk about?"

There, that was better.

"That's perfectly alright, my boy!" Dumbledore said with false cheerfulness. "You were held in a magical stasis until we could heal you, but stasis is not true sleep, it's perfectly natural for you to be tired and we won't keep you long."

"Thank you, sir."

"You are currently in a set of private rooms in the dungeons, adjoining Professor Snape's personal quarters. We thought it best to remove you from the hospital wing as Hogwarts is currently playing host to a number of visitors this summer and it seemed best to afford you some privacy."

"I see." He didn't. He just didn't care.

"Madame Pomfrey has done what she can for you until your body rests and your magic is under control. Profes-"

"My magic?" Now Harry began to panic. "What is wrong with my magic?"

Snape snorted. "Potter, being near you at the moment is rather like being out in a sandstorm with no protection. Magic reflects its host's disposition, but in those with power as strong as yours, it is almost sentient on the most primal level. At the moment yours is abrasive, it is angry and it is _very_ protective of you."

"Mine hasn't ever been particularly strong…" Harry disagreed, but he realised the absurdity of that statement even as he finished. He could _feel_ his power, and it was most certainly not weak.

"Perhaps not before," Snape agreed, "but you have reached the age of majority where magic is concerned, and your power has been fully unlocked. Due to the circumstances you found yourself in, it is wild and running rampant."

"No, wizards don't come of age until 17."

"True, but they receive their inheritance at 16, so that the final year at Hogwarts can be used to gain mastery over it."

As the professor spoke, Harry discovered that he could actually feel his magic raging around him. It reminded him of the accidental magic he had performed when younger, but instead of brief bursts, this was a shield around him constantly. It was like a wildfire inside him, all fury and hunger. Instinctively, he tried to pull it in towards himself and instantly felt a wave of warmth settle over him. He hadn't contained it all; he could still feel a pulsing angry aura, but he also felt his professors relaxing a little.

"You have a great deal of power, my boy." Dumbledore explained gently. "That power wants nothing more than to aid you. When you denied it the right to heal, it appears to have broken free of your control and is lashing out. It has settled some while you have been here, and it will only continue to get calmer as you heal." Harry felt him get to his feet. "I fear we have gotten a bit side-tracked; we can talk more on this later should you wish. I'm afraid I must leave for now, but first I must ask; why did you not tell me, Harry?"

Harry remained silent for a time, but he realised that the old man wasn't going to leave without some form of an answer. "I thought you knew." As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he regretted them, and felt Dumbledore recoil as though struck.

"You… you thought…?"

"_He_ said you knew." Harry whispered, hating to hear the pain in the old man's voice and fully believing for the first time in years that it had been a lie. "After first year, he said that's why you wouldn't let me spend the summer at Hogwarts, that you knew I needed to go home to be put back in my proper place."

"Oh, Harry…"

"And Mrs. Figg." Harry continued. "She must have known. She was always my babysitter when _they _went anywhere nice. She had to have seen. You sent her there to watch."

"Yes, she was there to watch," Dumbledore admitted softly, "but never once did she report anything to this magnitude. A time she mentioned bruises and your aunt said you'd have a run in with a few neighbourhood bullies… once we were told you fell from a tree and broke your arm."

Harry snorted. "I guess the Dursleys are bullies… never did climb a tree, though."

"I should have checked!" Now Dumbledore sounded furious with himself, and Harry could feel the old man's magic radiating from him. "With every bruise or scrape, I should have been there to make sure. Instead I believed the 'boys will be boys' line fed to me. I am so sorry, Harry. I hope one day you can forgive me."

"I thought you didn't care." Harry whispered. "I thought – especially after you told me the prophecy – I thought you just wanted me alive and obedient to face Voldemort." He turned his face earnestly towards where he thought the old man to be. "I never blamed you, Headmaster! I know I'm not good at anything and I swear I'll try to do better-"

Harry broke off with a flinch when he felt arms encircling him, but managed to stop himself from pulling away. Dumbledore held him tightly to his chest, in a way that Harry had never been held before, resting his chin on top of Harry's head.

"No Harry, never that. I swear on my magic that I did not know of your situation. I will never let them hurt you again."

Suddenly, Harry found himself hugging back.

* * *

Later that day, Harry was finally able to get out of bed. He knew he shouldn't, knew Madame Pomfrey would threaten to tie him down again, but he couldn't just lie there and _think _anymore. He had been relieved when his three Professors left him alone, he'd grown so tired of the constant talking and not just a little embarrassed of his breaking down and hugging the great Albus Dumbledore, but he had forgotten what it was like to be alone inside his own head.

So, he decided to explore his 'rooms', or as much as he could without sight. After much stumbling, stubbing and swearing, he found a wall and slid down it to the floor with a strangled groan of frustration. He'd gotten used to navigating the Dursleys in darkness, but he didn't even know where to begin here. Maybe he should ask to go to Gryffindor Tower; surely he would have better luck there after living in it for five years.

Here he was, sixteen years old and trying not to cry and feel sorry for himself as he sat on the floor of – the gods only know where he was! He was utterly drained, was fighting back tears of sheer frustration and absolutely dying for the toilet, but he hadn't even managed to find that!

"The Great Harry Potter," he whispered to himself, deprecatingly, "the Boy-Who-Pissed-Himself."

Merlin, but he was pathetic!

He reached up to feel the bandage that covered his eyes, terrified now to take it off and discover that he truly was blind. Dumbledore hadn't said anything about whether they had been healed or not, but the presence of the dressing alone should answer that. Ever since his eleventh birthday, he had believed that magic could do anything at all, that the possibilities were limitless, but what if he had been wrong? What if he took the stupid thing off and opened his eyes and saw…

Nothing?

Blackness.

Forever.

Furious with his own cowardice, he tore the bandage off in one quick move, his eyes screwed shut. He just had to open them. Just peel back his lids. Just _look._ Instead, with fingers trembling both from exhaustion and trepidation, he felt around his eyes. From the left temple to the right, almost in an exact straight line, the flesh was rough and tender, thick with scarring. The blisters were gone, including the one that had sealed his eyes shut. He could open them now. He just had to open them and he would know.

But what if he _was _permanently blind?

He wouldn't be able to stay at the school if he couldn't read or write. He wouldn't be able to learn the correct wand movements for any spells. He wouldn't be able to _fight_ and do his damned _duty_.

His heart was thudding in his chest, he was unable to catch his breath. He couldn't breathe. He screamed out his frustration and tore open his eyes.

Nothing.

Blackness.

_ Forever_.


	6. Chapter Five

**Chapter Five**

Harry awoke to find himself back in the Mindscape, already seated and facing his stern potions master. It was extremely disorientating; the last thing he remembered was crying himself to sleep curled up on a cold stone floor like a baby. He flushed at the thought, unable to meet Snape's unblinking gaze and hoping to all the gods that he hadn't been found by him. Even worse, he remembered the discomfort of his full bladder and closed his eyes, his humiliation complete.

"Why are we back here?" he asked, his voice muffled as he buried his face in his hands. ('_He's probably going to tell me how he's pissed himself before too.') _He groaned. "Ugh, Merlin I hate this place!"

"Well, I wasn't planning too." Snape drawled with obvious amusement, but that quickly faded when Harry still refused to meet his eyes. "It's a perfectly natural bodily function, Potter. You had to go; you couldn't find your way around. There's nothing to be embarrassed about."

"Says you."

"Fine, shall I regale you with tales of my own rather frequent accidents?" The man looked perfectly composed, merely lifting an eyebrow when Harry looked at him with horror. "Potter, you know what I do for Dumbledore. You've met the Dark Lord, you know how unstable he is, and how very much he enjoys the _Cruciatus_ Curse. Should I be ashamed and embarrassed that he will hold it over each of his _followers_ until our own bladders let go? I've lost count of the times the headmaster has carried me from the apparition point covered in blood and urine."

"That's different!" _('And utterly horrible! How can he stand it?') _

"I stand it because I must." Snape rolled his shoulders in a graceful shrug. "Listen, Potter. There are a few things we need to discuss today and very little of it will be pleasant. We have only until lunch before we will be awakened, and I would like to show you another benefit of this mindscape before we begin."

"Why must we talk here?" Harry scowled. ('_I hate this place!')_

"It is best that we know we can trust each other. What needs to be said today will be difficult for you and here I will know how you truly handle it. Likewise, you will know I speak only the truth." ('_It's not exactly at the top of my list of fun things to do.')_

Harry felt the heat in his cheeks. Of course, the last thing anyone would want to do was sit and put up with his whinging and whining.

"That's not it at all, Pot – Harry." Snape leaned forward, his gaze intent. "I told you, I very much want to help you and I truly believe I can if you will only let me. I know how difficult it is to talk about the things we must and as much as you dislike it, the mindscape can only help with that. Your natural instinct is to lash out and hide behind anger and that is fine for the most part, but your power is truly staggering, Harry, and what you discover today might hurt you."

Harry flinched, remembering his destruction of the headmaster's office the end of the previous school year, and again as he remembered attacking the old man at the Dursleys. The thought of what might be said now terrified him; if his professors feared his reaction, it would not be good. He felt himself wanting to hide, to sink back into himself and let the apathy take control, to send his mind elsewhere. He also felt the mindscape's refusal to allow that.

A part of him wondered what they could possibly talk about that was worse than what had already come up. It was true that he had more or less summarised his time at the Dursleys and had left a lot of things unsaid, but it was all just more of the same.

Snape watched him, watched as he tensed as though waiting for a psychical blow, and let it drop for now. Instead with a negligent wave of his hand, the blackness that surrounded them began to shift. If Harry had been disorientated before, it was nothing to watching a solid stone floor slide under him, and stone walls push in on all four sides.

Soon they appeared to be sitting in a large room, a thick dark green rug resting in the middle between a large hearth with a roaring fire and a comfortable looking grey fabric settee. On the other side of the room there was a small dining table with chairs, big enough to seat four.

"This is where you are currently staying." Snape said as he beckoned for Harry to follow. "That door leads out into the dungeon corridor, the one on the left leads into my quarters and this one…" he trailed off as he opened it onto a large bedroom. There were two beds, one a huge four-poster even more luxurious than the ones in Gryffindor Tower, and the other was a hospital wing wheeled stretcher. Harry was unnerved to see himself on the large bed and Snape on the smaller hospital bed. They both looked to be fast asleep, but they were lying side by side and holding hands. A faint blue aura pulsated around their clasped hands, no doubt signifying the mindscape spell.

More than a little uncomfortable, Harry looked around the rest of the room and saw a writing desk and a bookcase filled to the brim. The décor was exclusively white and bland.

"We must touch to form the bond for the medical mindscape." Snape explained and Harry could see a faint tinge of red on his professor's cheek. He hurried on before the teen could comment. "I will help you navigate when we return, but I thought you'd like to see it. The door through here leads to a private bathroom. These are your rooms for however long you want them, even during the school year if needs must."

"Why are they connected to yours?" Harry asked. ('_I can't imagine you would be comfortable with your quarters linked to empty rooms that anyone could get to.')_

Did Snape's cheeks go even redder? "They were not here before you returned. Hogwarts itself apparantly felt the need to give you privacy but also a quick way to me should you need it."

"Hogwarts itself?"

"You know, of course, that Hogwarts is sentient."

"Er…"

"Potter! Havent you even read Hogwarts: A History?"

"When would I have done that?" Harry snapped. "Before I started when I was locked away in my cupboard and then my bedroom? During school when I was at classes and doing homework, or when I was fighting against Voldemort?"

"Do not say his name!" Snape hissed, his voice getting quieter in his anger as Harry's got louder.

"Voldemort, Voldemort, Voldemort!"

They glared at each other for a few minutes, Harry's chest heaving. Finally, Snape sighed and returned to the main room and to his seat.

"Well. Hogwarts is sentient." He said matter-of-factly after Harry saw fit to join him. "Hundreds of years of magical students within her halls, not to mention the input of the four most powerful witches and wizards our world has ever seen, have combined..."

"Look, can we just get the bad bit out of the way first?" Harry interrupted quietly. He was actually interested in what the man was saying, but he couldn't concentrate or settle knowing that something horrible was soon to come.

"I had hoped to ease you into it," Snape replied, a calculating look in his eye as he stared into Harry's intently. He sighed. "I can see that's not going to work, however. Very well, I assume you know that due to the wards surrounding the castle, it is impossible to apparate into and out of the grounds?"

"Yes."

"When the Headmaster arrived with you, he therefore had to apparate into Hogsmeade and make his way to the castle on foot. You were unconscious, stunned, and held in his arms."

A feeling of dread welled up inside Harry, and he suddenly found himself not wanting to know anymore. Snape was still watching him carefully and so saw when he began to panic, his breaths coming in short sharp pants.

"You were, unfortunately, seen and recognised by someone in the village. You and Albus both were covered in blood. The Headmaster had a deep scratch on his cheek. Though they do not know any details, it has been reported to the Daily Prophet."

"They'll just think it was Vol – _him._"

"Unfortunately, it was known that Albus would be retrieving you from your... relatives."

Harry wasn't quite sure what happened next. The nice quiet room they were in disappeared to be replaced by that familiar darkness. This time, however, they weren't alone. Shadowy figures surrounded Harry's seat, all faceless and yet their postures seemed to indicate derision.

_"Pathetic!"_

_ "The saviour of the wizarding world can't even stop a muggle!"_

_ "He deserves it."_

_ "Nothing but a bloody murderer."_

The voices were loud and overlapping, only broken by contemptuous laughter. Harry shrank back in his chair and tried to make himself as small as possible. He tried to calm. He tried to remember how to breathe.

A hand settled on top of his own and those shadowy intruders vanished. He stared down at that pale hand, the long elegant fingers clasping his own, the nails clean and neatly trimmed. When it was removed, he looked up to see Snape settling back in his chair, his face expressionless.

"Do you really think so little of your friends?" The tone was curious and a touch disparaging. Harry flinched, but did not answer. Thankfully, the mindscape didn't either. "Very well, lets move on to your eyesight, shall we?"

"The lack of it, you mean."

"Potter," Snape sounded exasperated now, "you live in the magical world. You know that it will only be temporary, there are a lot of options open to you."

Unbidden an image of Mad-Eye Moody appeared, but it quickly morphed into Harry with two of those awful magical eyes rolling around in his head. He was reminded of those joke glasses Dudley had had as a kid, with the spiralling plastic eyes popping out, and he snorted.

"Mad-Eye had that inserted over 20 years ago, Potter." Snape didn't bother to hide his own amusement, "you'll find artificial sight has come a long way since then. We have yet to exhaust all options for repairing your own, however. We needed you to be awake before we could examine them more closely."

"I see." Harry said, then grimaced at the pun. "Sorry."

"Madame Pomfrey and I are fairly confident that we can come up with a solution between us." Snape continued. "It just requires a touch of patience."

* * *

AN: I'm finding it difficult to write a blind Harry. He was never going to be blind for long, but now I'm thinking I will speed up that particular part of the recovery. What do you think, should we heal Harry's eyes properly or come up with a magical solution somewhat like Mad-Eye Moody's, but of course much less noticeable?


	7. Chapter Six

**Chapter Six**

Harry turned his face up to the rain and let its ferocity cleanse him. His eyes closed, his mouth upon to catch the drops and he sagged as some of the tension that had been building for days finally left him. He knew he shouldn't be out here, knew he was more than likely to break his neck or wander into the whomping willow, but for the moment he couldn't bring himself to care. He _needed_ escape. He was suffocating in that room, and though the darkness followed him out here, followed him wherever he went, here it was more like something he himself had unleashed, rather than something forced upon him.

It felt _great_ to be out here, to be standing amidst such a storm. Here, he didn't need eyes to see the terrible beauty of nature's wrath. Tentatively, he relaxed his hold on his magic and felt it flare out around him, crackling, tongues lashing out like the flames of a devouring fire. He didn't just hear the rumble of the thunder directly overhead, he _felt _it deep in his bones, a shuddering sigh one moment, then a shattering roar. The wind _screamed _its rage and the trees of the Forbidden Forest groaned as they bowed before it.

Harry staggered, battered this way and that, pushed and pulled and thrown to his knees, and his magic threw itself out in a wild fury; not in an attempt to subvert the storm, but to enhance it, complement it, to _dance_ with it. He felt grass give way as he clawed his hands into fists, felt the mud slide under his knees, and he flew his head back and screamed. He screamed out his anger, his pain, his fear, screamed out to a freedom he had never experienced, his cry was primal, almost bestial in its raw emotion, and the wind lifted it, caressed it, threw it out into the thunder of the night. He screamed and his magic screamed with him, whipping out at anyone and anything that might be in his path, churning the ground beneath him, tearing at the grass, flinging it into the sky until a whirlwind of mud and grass and branches surrounded the figure, lit only by lightning.

When at last he fell silent, so did the storm. The rain continued its cleansing ritual, bathing him in cold wet comfort, and he panted heavily, trying to remember how to breathe. For the first time in a week, the night's sky settled into a tentative calm; no more lightning ripped its way free, no much furious claps of thunder, nothing but the sound of rainfall and a boy, exhausted, falling face first into the mud.

He didn't need to be found; he had been watched. Severus Snape strode through the huge entrance to the castle and down the few steps onto the grounds. The rain was thick enough to obscure his vision, but the rather large crater Harry had just made would have been impossible to miss. After checking for a pulse and finding it strong, the Potions Master gathered the far too light boy into his arms and turned back to the castle.

He wasn't surprised to see Albus Dumbledore waiting in the doorway, nor to see startled faces gaping out of the windows. He noticed Draco Malfoy looking pale and terrified and resolved to search him out and speak to him later, but for now he needed to get Harry dry and warm.

Dumbledore's expression was grim as he fell into step besides Severus, moving down into the dungeons and towards the room that Hogwarts herself had created for the boy.

Harry was beyond freezing, the night clothes he wore were plastered to him and heavy with rain. While Severus held him tightly to his chest, Dumbledore spelled the boy dry and transfigured another set of night ware. He lay Harry back onto the bed, then took out his wand and performed a myriad of heating charms, coolly and calmly, as he tried to get some warmth into that too-white flesh. Harry was breathing evenly, his pulse was strong, but his immune system had taken a bit of a beating as it fought infection, and the last thing they needed was pneumonia.

Neither spoke as they made sure the boy was settled, and both remained until they could feel the charms working. Finally, once they were sure that Harry was just sleeping off his exhaustion, they turned and left the room, closing the door softly behind them. Then, they stared at each other.

"Well." Dumbledore was the one to break the silence, but his voice was shaky. "That happened."

Severus snorted.

"Do-" Dumbledore broke off, hesitant. "Do you think he will be ok?"

Snape was silent for a moment. "We will ensure that he is."

"I had better go and deal with… things."

"Yes, there were a few witnesses." Severus sighed, running a hand through his thick hair. "I will deal with the Malfoy's, and the new _feature_ in the grounds."

"At least we seem to have a bit of break from the storm." Dumbledore said, brightly. Severus didn't bother to answer, instead he turned sharply, his robes billowing, and strode deeper into the dungeons.

Albus Dumbledore had interrupted the trial of one Lucius Malfoy to give evidence that the man had been working for the light since before the end of the last war. As such, the three Malfoy's had been forced to accept refuge in Hogwarts; Voldemort wasn't known for his forgiveness and before the Dark Lord had fallen, Lucius had been his right-hand man. To say that Voldemort had been unsatisfied with Lucius' failure to seek him out over the years was an understatement, and his treatment of the family since had been horrendous.

He had taken over their manor home, he had destroyed many precious heirlooms and all but wiped out the wealth amassed in the Malfoy vaults. He had cursed all three Malfoy's with the _Cruciatus Curse _on more than one occasion, and had sent Lucius on that hairbrained scheme to the Ministry expecting him to fail.

Severus arrived at their rooms and let himself in, not surprised to see all three of them waiting for him. The suite wasn't anywhere near as luxurious as the Malfoy's were used to, but it was a temporary situation until they took up permanent rooms in the school proper. It was sparsely furnished, but it was warm, dry and safe, and they were grateful for that. All three of them looked dreadful, as though they were recovering from a terrible illness; the Malfoy pride had certainly taken a knock or two.

"That was quite a spectacle." Lucius murmured, not bothering to hide how impressed he had been at the display of pure magic. He wasn't looking at Severus, instead he looked down at the brandy in the glass, swirling it around absentmindedly.

Severus sighed, wondering what explanation to give them this time. It was already in the prophet; it wouldn't be long until the rest of the story came out. Still, he didn't feel right sharing it. "Potter is…"

"We know." Narcissa interrupted gently, sparing him. "Draco here explained the situation to us."

"And how does Draco know it to explain?" Severus asked sharply, his eyes narrowing on his light-haired godson. The youngest Malfoy looked awful; his normally pale face had lost even the hint of colour, his hair was ungroomed, his eyes a little wild and startled.

"I snuck in to the hospital wing." Draco answered, looking at his feet. "When the headmaster brought him in last week. I saw…. I saw what he showed."

Severus sat down, weary. He couldn't even be angry; if Draco had had the same vision, then he had more than learned his lesson. It had been a powerful sending, he had felt only a fraction of the pain Potter must have felt at the time, but that fraction had been bad enough. He brushed his hair out of his face and eyed his godson with a mixture of pity and sorrow. He held out his arms, and Draco ran into them.

"You shouldn't have seen that, little dragon." He murmured.

"Will Potter be alright?" Draco croaked, unwittingly asking the same question as Dumbledore. Severus gave him the same answer.

"We will make sure that he is."

"What's happened to the muggles?" Lucius asked, and there was a fury behind his words that Severus hadn't heard since his own seventh year, when his brother in all but blood had discovered the truth about Tobias Snape and his drunken rages.

"Albus placed the house in stasis." He answered quietly. "He turned them over to the ministry when they learned about Potter's condition."

"And what is his condition, Sev?" Narcissa asked, leaning forward. Her pale grey eyes were burning with a need to _do_ something.

"Broken."

* * *

When Harry woke again, it was to find himself back in bed. For a moment, he wondered if his little excursion had been nothing but a dream, but he felt absolutely exhausted, his entire body heavy and unresponsive, his magic terrifyingly silent. He opened his eyes with a start, feeling inside himself for that core, that wild untamed raw power was little more than a flicker. Without even thinking about underage wizardry and the trouble he could get into, Harry reached out his hand and tried to summon his wand.

Nothing happened.

He tried again and again, growing increasingly frantic. Was his magic gone? Had he somehow managed to burn it all out? Wandless magic was new to him, something he had only discovered at the start of summer, so maybe he just needed to find his wand and then everything would work ok.

He scrambled out from under the thick covers, his legs buckling when he tried to stand. Gods but he was so tired, even as he began to grow hysterical, his eyelids tried to close and lull him back into darkness. He managed to stand, albeit with his legs trembling under him and his arms out for balance. He waited for a wave of nausea to pass by and then, finally, looked around the room.

There was a small bedside table next to the bed and he stumbled over to it, yanking the drawer out so hard that he ended up pulling it completely from the cupboard and flinging it across the room. A slim black object rattled around inside it and Harry dove after it with a relief so profound that it nearly choked him.

He curled his fingers around his wand and felt a tingle of that same warmth that had been there since the day in Ollivander's, but it was just a fraction of its usual comfort.

He flicked it at the drawer. "_Wingardium Leviosa!"_

Nothing.

"_Wingardium Leviosa!" _

Still nothing.

_ "__WINGARDIUM LEVIOSA!"_

The drawer shuddered, shook, lifted a _tiny bit_ and then slapped back down onto the floor.

That bit of magic took his breath away. He felt a sharp pain in his chest and instinctively knew that to try again would be bad. He climbed to his feet again, panting. He still held his wand tightly, refused to let it go, and looked around with narrowed eyes. Unfathomably, he hated this room. It made him claustrophobic, far more than the cupboard under the stairs ever did, but then he had always hated to be confined.

He started across the room, wondering if he liked the others any better, when a thought suddenly occurred to him.

He could _see_.

He ran into the bathroom and stopped in front of the mirror, staring at his reflection with incredulity. He looked … different. His hair was long, touching his shoulders. His flesh was almost pure white in contrast to the blackness of his hair. His eyes were as green as ever, but now they seemed to glow – to literally _pulse_ – with power. The burn scarring around his eyes and mouth looked years old. He was quite sure that he was taller, as well. He looked down, pulling the nightshirt up and saw his chest was just as heavily scarred as ever, but now you couldn't count his ribs. Now, his flat stomach was defined. His abdomen was muscular, his arms… he looked more like a normal sixteen-year-old boy who frequented a gym.

_And I can SEE_

He didn't feel right, like this body wasn't his own. He was too short, emaciated, stunted. He wasn't this… whatever the hell this was staring back at him.

But he could _see_.

* * *

AN: Sorry it took a while, and it's a bit short. Hopefully I can pick up the pace again now.


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